


Le type de loup le plus dangereux

by MatildaSwan



Series: Whispers of a Myth [3]
Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Little Red Riding Hood Fusion, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Period Typical Attitudes, i can't believe there is a specific tag for that, specifically towards sexual relations + seduction - idk it’s c17th France just roll w it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 23:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11279415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/pseuds/MatildaSwan
Summary: Serena knew about wolves in men's clothing but never stopped to consider the possibility of wolves who would be women. In hindsight, perhaps she should have, it might have better prepared her for this, forher. Perhaps.





	Le type de loup le plus dangereux

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a much shorter tumblr drabble courtesy of a prompt from @beezarre and thought it was worth a bit of embellishing.
> 
> CW: references to period appropriate gendered power imbalances and sexual pressure

Serena McKinnie, bred in the Alps and born of the Empire, tires of her Father’s Scottish castle the year of her 15th birthday. She becomes a woman and becomes bored; begs to return to her mother and the South of France. She wants to relive memories so dear of a childhood spent in flowing silk, chasing butterflies in sunlit gardens, before she moved to the mist and fog of the highlands as her Father’s heir.

Her father refuses, cannot bear the thought of being alone in a dreary castle while his wife and youngest daughter live a continent away. He begs Serena stay, for a few years longer, showers her with gifts of the finest silver and gold and fur to entice her. He need not have bothered: she obliges because she loves him and stays for far longer than she wants to because he asked. 

She stays wrapped up in fox fur to protect against the cold until he passes. 

She stays as she grieves, clinging the little red hooded coat her father loved so dear.

She inherits and heals and does what she wants with her life. R eturns to her Mother’s side at 18 and an adult. Returns to be presented at court in her Father’s name and at her Mother’s side, in her own dress of scarlet to match her fox furs. She charms all those who walk the corridors and takes a prideful place in court.

They call her a beauty, with her fair skin and dark eyes and cinched waist. They think her a handful, with her sharp wit and sharper tongue and the sharpest mind. They regard her a prize to be won, her fortune theirs for the taking if they can take her too.

Some try, of course they do, the Duke of Campbell, most of all, for months on end, in fact. She enjoys his accent, a faint reminder of home, but nothing more. She sees through his game, the flirt and the charm that masks the rotten core underneath. She tells him as much, after one dinner of too much wine and fine dining. 

He takes the insult and stops paying her court and moves on to easier prey.

She keeps her eyes peeled and opened as she stay at court. Watches for more of the type that her mother, her sister, her aunt, and her cousins all warned her about (her Father too, before he died, the first to tell her of what waited for her out in the world). 

Keeps her eyes peeled for gentlemen who are all man and not at all gentle; rakes more likely to plough and sow seed than tidy a lawn; rogues with silver tongues so willing to lap at the hem of a skirt. Men willing to slide their way up high and ask a girl to open up wide; bury themselves in the crux a woman’s thigh only to slip away, wordless, in the night.

She is wary of the type, men prepared to gobble up virtue and leave shame in their wake, as she enjoys her seasons at court, flirting and flittering and never settling. She is wary but not afraid because she sees these men for what they really are: wolves who would be men with clothes to match. 

Serena wears their pelts for warmth and does what she pleases with her life and she is not afraid.

Of course, she never stopped to consider the possibility of wolves who would be women, not even when she meets _her_. 

She sweeps into court, timed perfectly to mark the court’s season, to stand tall and statuesque in their company. Serena knows the gossip will no longer preference her, not with the Lady Berenice in their presence, not with this lady in their midsts. The one with a face carved of marble, her hair spun of gold, with eyes that sparkle brighter than the night’s sky. With skin cream as Serena’s own still warm from the sand and sun of a distant land; with stories almost unimaginable if not for the sincerity shining in her eyes as tale after tale falls from her pretty mouth to entertain her table every night. 

Tales that spark the interest of everyone at court, which entice the desire of almost every man in court only to find themselves rejected, which evoke suspicion of almost every woman who wonders out loud why she spurns the advances of men. Save Serena, who never queries why the the newest of their numbers dislikes the company of men, any more than she does herself. 

Perhaps she should have questioned, should have wondered, about herself, about this woman. She does not. 

Just introduces herself one evening after dinner, her eyes heavy with the boredom born of that dinner’s droning company and her mouth loosened with wine. Her antics earn herself a bark of laughter and she cannot help but laugh as well and vows to do everything she can to hear that laugh again.

She does exactly that in the weeks that follow as the season progress, relishing the days spent in each other’s company as the season progress, delighting in looking up into now familiar face always smiling down from a few scant inches above. 

She write to her mother about the newest member of the court and revels in the fact that she is no longer alone; falls asleep most nights wishing she could talk to her father about her dearest friend. 

A friend she keeps company while the seamstress pokes and prods and pins into light blue satin in preparation of the last ball of the season. 

Friends who arrive together, linked arm in arm. Friends who stay joined at the hip as the spectacle of a courtly ball surrounds them. Friends who stay pressed close to enjoy each other’s company in this ballroom filled to the brim with members of court.

Serena smiles against the rim of her glass as they laugh and joke and watch the evening pass, with no intention of joining in. Or so Serena assumes, at least, that is, until the eldest son from house Dunn bursts their bubble and offers out a hand.

“Would the lady care for a dance?”

Serena laughs, flaps her hand, expects her friend to do the same. Starts, shocked, when she sees a hand slip into his, hears a giggled acceptance, sees the back of her walk away. 

Serena watches them walk way to leave her sitting alone. Feels envy burn red hot and itching under the skin and in the pit of her stomach. Wonders why it burns to be left behind. 

She tires quickly, not interested in waiting for company that may never come back, and retires from the festivities to retreat to her room as the next composition begins.

She leaves the ballroom to find the Duke of Campbell barring her exit, trapping her to sneer false compliments and offer up his own company, in the crowd of dancers or her own boudoir. 

She wants to laugh, to spit in his face; choses not to, declines politely instead. Feels the bile of her manners burn in her throat as she slips past him, but not before she see the flash in his eyes. She worries for a moment he might follow, until she hears the raised blare of the party as the doors open, and then the emptiness of the corridor as they close again. 

She carries on to her room unafraid.Strips off her gown. Starts on her corset. 

She hears a knock at her door and a soft voice call her name. Her skin itches now more than ever. Opens the door to see the frowning face of her friend and feels the most confused of all.

“Why did you leave?” Berenice asks in lieu of greeting, her face shadowed by the corridor light, peering in through the crack of the open door. "It was only a dance."

“Why would I have stayed?” Serena counters, turns to walk into the dim of her room, leaves Berenice to decide if she enters or not. 

She closes the door behind her. “For me?”

Serena lights more candles. 

“Why would I, when you didn’t, when you left me alone,” Serena snaps as she places a holder on the table beside her bed. “Why would I stay somewhere I’m not wanted.”

“You were,” she counters, three feet from Serena and reaching forward. “You _are —”_

“By who?” Serena snarls, takes a step forward to leave them a foot apart.

“By me!” It breaks the tension of the room, only for it thicken again with the whisper: “I want you.”

For the first time in her life Serena considers the possibility of wolves in woman’s clothes, of a wolf in the shape of a women. Wonders on the existence of wolves with rouge red cheeks and peach sweet lips and gleaming kohl lined eyes. Imagines a wolf intent on charming women to do the beasts with two backs and both draped in silk and lined in lace and sees only the woman in front of her.

She does her best to stand, her limbs languid with wine, her ears still ringing with faint echoes of music.

“I want you,” Berenice repeats, voice ragged and eyes gleaming. 

Serena knows she is not imagining the want in her eyes, the desire to make her way into Serena’s bed and under Serena’s skirts and between Serena’s thighs

Her knees go weak and her arms reach out and pulls them both onto the bed; the  itch under her skin threats to burn her alive, searing wicked and delicious through her body stripped naked and aching. 

She sprawls out on top of red silk sheets and dark fur blankets. Looks up to see the wolfe smirking against Serena’s flesh. Her pointed nose nuzzles in the course curls below Serena’s stomach as her fingers rest sticky on her core. 

Breath mists over Serena’s centre and she begs to be eaten alive.

“Was that a growl or a whine?” she asks, before running her tongue between Serena’s parted folds.

Serena whimpers, writhes, whines. Does not answer as the tongue presses flat against her. She comes with a wail, arched off the bed and aching for more. C omes back to herself with peach sweet kisses on her cheek and a smile nuzzled into her neck. She sighs and rakes her fingers through golden locks, pulls their face close and kisses her soundly, moans as she tastes the essence of herself and kisses harder. 

She flips them over, Berenice on her back, peppers kisses over her jugular, over her collarbone, over her chest. Licks at a nipple, feels it hard against her tongue, and sucks softly. Hears a gasp high above her head and smirks into her breast. Buries her hands in the warm and wet of parted thighs and feels as if the world has offered her a gift she had not thought to ask for. 

She feels the silken hot fresh clench around her knuckles and knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that wolves who are also women are the most dangerous kind of all, a nd when Berenice stills beneath her, panting gently and smiling wide, Serena is still not afraid.


End file.
